


Bombed Out

by drayton



Category: Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drayton/pseuds/drayton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Polly seeks Mr. Dunworthy's advice after returning from 1941.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bombed Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/gifts).



“Mr. Dunworthy,” Polly said, “I need your help. I've been bombed out.”

It took me a moment to grasp the reference. During the Blitz, thousands of Londoners were bombed out, forcing them to cope with the loss of homes, possessions, and sometimes even loved ones. Most of them had shunned professional help in favor of seeking support from their neighbors.

I've seen bombing victims at first hand on several of my drops. The sense of dislocation, of being unconnected to the world, often stayed with them long after they'd found new lodgings. Yes, Polly had definitely been bombed out.

“Counseling not working out for you?” I said, putting down my pen. It's a Time Travel rule that historians who have been on prolonged or eventful drops are required to attend counseling sessions. It usually helps, but historians who've had particularly bad drops often turn to me as well. I'd been half-expecting to see Polly ever since our return to Oxford.

“No,” she said. “Maybe it's me. How can I make someone in 2070 understand what it feels like to live in London while it's under attack, to worry constantly, not knowing what might be taken away in the next moment? Or what it's like to come home after months of that, to a city that doesn't have rationing and air raids and bombed-out buildings on every street? And that's leaving off all the time I spent worrying about my deadline or inadvertently dooming the contemps around me. My counselor's attentive enough, but I might as well have been telling him a fairy story.”

“And is that what distresses you most?” I asked.

Polly thought about it, and then admitted, “No. It's not the things. Seeing everything whole and abundance everywhere, that's disorienting, but it's the people that hurt.”

“In what way?” I said.

“Everyone's older. Everyone's changed. Dad's dead, and Mum... she tenses up every time I mention my work, as if she's suppressing the urge to ask me to give up going on assignment. Most of my school friends are married. They've settled down; they're successful. I feel left behind... half-finished and ancient at the same time, because I'm younger than they are but have seen so much more. Is that normal?”

“If by _normal_ , you mean 'sadly typical of an historian who's been on a bad drop', then yes.” Not for the first time, I found myself wishing I hadn't authorized Polly's research plan. As a practical historian, I recognize the value of first-hand observation, even in dangerous conditions. As a tutor, I know that most historians who spend time in the field have a bad drop sooner or later, and constantly strive to strike a balance between scholarship and safety. The intellectual knowledge that protecting my students is impossible has never stopped me from trying—or from feeling guilty when I fail.

“So what do I do?” she said. “Nothing fits. Nothing's right. I don't belong here anymore. Colin... Colin would no doubt be delighted to marry me and go on drops together for the rest of our lives, but I'm not sure I want that.”

“Is that what he said?”

“No,” she said in frustration. “He hasn't pressed me at all. Why does he have to be so damned _understanding_?”

“You'd like him to demand your devotion?” I asked, letting the amusement reach my voice. Colin's adoration of Polly had been obvious to me in 2060. I hadn't realized how much Polly liked him in return until we were trapped in 1941, and I suspect she'd been surprised by it herself.

“No,” she said, looking embarrassed, “but it would be nice if someone else made the decisions for a while. I don't feel... up to it, just now. I used to have a plan. I used to know what I wanted. Now... I don't want anything. I think I'm worse off now than I was the day we returned from 1941.”

She was probably right. My best students have demonstrated a remarkable ability to mold themselves to their contemp personas. The trouble usually begins after they return from assignment and try to resume their modern lives.

“Do you feel that you've fully adjusted to 2070?” I asked.

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“When you walk down the street, are you often reminded of the Blitz?”

“Constantly.”

“And Eileen?” I asked. “Sir Godfrey?”

“Yes,” she said. “I miss them all the time. Even the Hodbins.”

“That, my dear, is carrying nostalgia entirely too far,” I said dryly. The Hodbins had been worse than Colin on his most trying days, and I'd only had one of him to contend with.

She laughed. “I suppose so,” she said. “Are you trying to say that I'm stranded somewhere between 1941 and 2070, and that's why I'm having such a difficult time?”

“Full marks,” I answered. “You always were quick.”

“Have you ever been... _stuck_?”

 _Oh child, if you only knew_. “Yes. Multiple times.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“The first time it happened, I tried to move on as if nothing unusual had occurred. My counselor had warned me against becoming enmeshed with the past. I'd misinterpreted her advice to mean 'spend as little time thinking about it as possible' and in an effort to be normal again, I resolutely squelched any thoughts or feelings I had about the people I'd left behind.”

“And did it work?”

“I thought so, at first,” I said. “But as time went by, it became more difficult to do. I seemed to be spending all of my time thinking about _not_ thinking about things. And the nightmares were dreadful.”

“That would be roughly where I am, just now,” she admitted.

I'd suspected as much, given the dark circles under her eyes. She looked more worn than she had during the Blitz, when no one got a decent night's rest.

“Unfortunately, by then,” I said, thinking back to my first disastrous drop, “I'd managed to convince my counselor that I was much recovered, and I was afraid to go back. I didn't want to be grounded from time travel.”

I gave Polly a long, questioning look over my spectacles, and got a reluctant nod in reply. “You will not repeat my mistake,” I said sternly. "You will try again, with a different counselor, if you so desire.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Did you ever find something that helped?”

“Yes,” I said. “I decided that I'd expected too much of myself. Powerful experiences cannot be set aside like broken umbrellas. I altered my schedule to allow for two hours of contemplation every evening. During that time, I wrote about my experiences, describing my memories and feelings as fully and candidly as possible. The rest of the day, I tried to minimize the amount of time I spent with the past. I acknowledged each thought as it occurred, but postponed exploration of those thoughts until the evening, when I could write about them.”

“And that worked?” she asked hopefully.

“Eventually. The next time I had a bad drop, I began that process almost immediately, and used my counseling sessions to discuss some of the things I'd written about. That recovery was far less difficult. You were right, Polly, in thinking that your counselor may never truly understand your experiences. As long as he helps _you_ understand them, he will have done his job.”

“How long will it take?”

 _The question they always ask_. “I can't tell you that,” I admitted, thinking of all the hours I'd spent consoling Kivrin.

“What if it takes _years_? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” she said in despair.

“Be an historian,” I said. “If you don't feel up to going on assignment again, you can be a traditional historian. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“I'm afraid if I don't go out again right away, I'll never find the courage to do it.”

“I've heard that fear expressed, many times,” I told her. “I've _felt_ it, many times.”

“And yet, you've always gone on another drop,” she said.

“Yes.” _Thus far_. I didn't tell her I was currently struggling with the possibility that I might have grown too old for time travel. Could I bear to give it up after all these years? What if I couldn't, and ended up endangering someone else?

“I've reapplied to the graduate program,” she said, seemingly out of nowhere. “I hope to officially resume my studies in the fall.”

“That sounds remarkably like a decision.”

“Not really,” she said. “Until I know what I want, I thought I'd carry on with the things old Polly thought were important.”

Sensible even when deeply distressed. How very like her. I thought of the courage she'd shown during our bleakest days in 1941, and concluded that Polly would recover fully, given time. “Then you have a good deal of work to do between now and September,” I said. “Unless you've already finished the paper for your 1940 drop?”

“I haven't even finished writing up the 1944 one,” she said. “You're right; there's plenty to keep me busy here in Oxford for the time being. I should go. You probably have work of your own to finish. Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Dunworthy; you've been a tremendous help. May I visit again to... consult?”

“Any time you like,” I said, and meant it.

After Polly left, I thought to myself that she seemed a bit further along than I'd dared to hope. She'd left behind the “rigidly controlled” phase most of my students pass through on the way to accepting their lives will never be the same. I doubted she'd be ready for a drop by the Michaelmas term, but perhaps during Hilary? Assuming, of course, she didn't change her focus to another time period, which seemed like a definite possibility with Colin in the picture.

Thinking of Colin reminded me that I should get back to work. Before Polly's arrival, I'd been pondering my relationship with him. It had been difficult to return to Oxford after four months' absence and accept that my teenager was now in his late twenties. Colin seemed to be testing the old boundaries I'd established, and I was puzzling out where the boundaries for his older self should be, and how to enforce them. I still had a few more thoughts to set down before my two hours were up.


End file.
